


Spare the Rod (The Social Reinforcement Remix)

by inksheddings



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-21
Updated: 2010-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inksheddings/pseuds/inksheddings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone shares the pleasure, everyone shares the hurt.  Why not, when there's enough to go around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare the Rod (The Social Reinforcement Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_rck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rck/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bad Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/41167) by [the_rck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rck/pseuds/the_rck). 



> This remix is primarily Aya/Omi focused, but there is background Yohji/Omi as well. Omi is seventeen in this fic.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful and encouraging beta, whymzycal!
> 
> the_rck, I hope you enjoy this remix. Thanks for the opportunity to play with your story!

Aya doesn't know how Omi could actually enjoy these encounters, how he could gain so much physical pleasure from the abuse both Aya and Yohji subject him to. Actually, Aya is certain that Yohji sees it as a sexual lark, something not to be taken too seriously by any of the participants: a little fun for all, where's the harm in that? Aya, though, is certain that both he and Omi take it very seriously. It's probably better that Yohji is unaware, or that he at least pretends.

Aya looks at Omi, who lies face down on the table in the interrogation room. He's naked, bound, and shaking so slightly that no one else would probably even notice.

The first hit to Omi's bare ass is always the most difficult for Aya to deliver. He feels a sharp twinge of guilt, of uncertainty (how could Omi get off on this, Takitori or not?). The thought that eventually makes Aya pull back his arm and release the tension he's built up in anticipation of this moment isn't a new one.

Takatori. Omi is a Takatori.

It stings, when his hand initially makes contact. It stings and Omi cries out, but not because he wants it to stop. Omi's growing erection is proof enough that he wants Aya to continue, that he wants to be punished in whatever way Aya sees fit. Aya can't help but think that he should be disgusted by Omi's lack of control--by the fact that he gives the control over so willingly and so completely, that he lets himself be restrained and made to say humiliating things.

Aya isn't disgusted, though, not if the beginnings of his own sexual arousal are any indication. But he's not near finished with taking care of Omi, so he lets his cock grow hard inside his jeans, lets the ache of confinement motivate the next strike to Omi's flesh. His hand hurts a little less with each successive hit, and he begins using his free hand to play with Omi's balls. He runs his fingers up the length of Omi's cock now and then, too, but he avoids actively jacking him. That would level out the pain-versus-pleasure quotient to an unacceptable level. Not that Omi is truly suffering, because Aya can tell that the kid is thrusting back to meet each strike of his hand.

"Such a slut," Aya says, another strong hit punctuating his words. The word _slut_, however, doesn't feel quite right on his tongue. That's just the game, the fantasy he, Yohji, and Omi concocted when all this started. It was simpler that way, simpler than admitting to what this was really all about, at least for Omi and Aya.

"I...I didn't do anything," Omi says. He's crying now, though not enough to concern Aya. Omi's tears are due to physical pain, the sort of discomfort that all of Weiss is familiar--and, in some cases, comfortable--with, no matter what outward signs their bodies exhibit when under its influence.

Even though he knows Omi can't see it, Aya shakes his head as he pops open the buttons on his jeans between strikes. "No, kid, you deserve everything you get from me. Everything." Once Aya's cock is finally free from the nearly painful pressure of denim, he squeezes Omi's particularly hard, letting Omi's groan muffle his own.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Omi remembers kissing Ouka on the balcony, remembers her perfume and that her lipstick tasted like caramel. After that, all he remembers is Hirofumi beating him senseless. Or maybe senseless isn't quite right. Omi denied him, after all--denied the only flesh and blood family he'd known at that point in his life. And when Aya cut Omi's bonds and told him he was not Takatori Mamori, but that he was just _Omi..._

Omi wonders if those memories are responsible for what he craves now--bent over the table, bound, and getting off to the feel of Aya's strict hand, getting off to the punishment for being a Takatori, despite the fact that Aya released him from that responsibility even after Omi had thought he'd released himself. This is what senselessness truly is, far more than anything Omi's "family" had ever done to him and those he cared about.

Just as Omi's ass is starting to go numb from more strikes than he can count, Aya stops. Omi can still feel Aya's hands, caressing and massaging, but those sensations are muted, too gentle to garner much response from Omi's overworked skin.

But then Aya's hands are spreading Omi open, and Omi feels Aya begin pushing into him, inch by inch, and that's a different sort of pain, one that Omi doesn't think he'll ever be numb to--hopes he'll never be. Omi can't help it; he strains against the the bar keeping his legs still and spread, and he tries to push himself up from the table. Aya's places his hand on the back of Omi's neck and thrusts hard the rest of the way inside, effectively halting Omi's restlessness.

Aya doesn't move his hips, but the hand at Omi's neck slips forward. He feels Aya's fingers wrap slightly around his throat and squeeze--not much, but enough.

"Regretting anything, brat?" Aya asks.

Omi gasps, bites his arm, and comes too hard and too soon, and he knows he'll face more punishment because of it. But that's okay because Aya starts moving his hips, and the strength of his thrusts are pushing Omi's cock against the table.

Omi does have regrets, like anyone else, but this isn't one of them.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Yohji sits outside the flower shop, having borrowed Momoe-san's chair so he could sit and smoke comfortably. It's chilly, the breeze strong enough that lighting his cigarette had been somewhat of a challenge, but Yohji doesn't mind. He can't possibly go inside right now--no way, no how. Not with Aya fucking Omi for all he's worth. Doesn't matter that Yohji can't hear them, not in that room with all its soundproofing, but Yohji is intimately familiar with the sort of noise that comes out of Omi's mouth when he's good and fucked. Or when he's _bad_ and fucked, as the rules of their game dictate.

Yohji's balls tighten with the memory, and he takes a deep drag, willing his nether regions to calm the hell down, just this once. He's not sure how much longer he can keep up with those two idiots, but if he leaves them alone in their fantasy, with nothing and no one to remind them that it really _is_ just a fantasy, well...fuck.

Yohji crushes his cigarette butt under his boot, but he won't forget to clean it up before he goes back inside. He doesn't want to get on Momoe-san's bad side, nuh-uh. He's already pushing his luck by sitting in her chair.

Speaking of pushing luck, Yohji spares a glance for the front door, wondering how long until Aya and Omi are finished. He lights another cigarette and curses Takatori Reiji as perversely as he knows how, but some of his more colorful epithets only remind him of what Aya and Omi are doing downstairs. Yohji can feel his cock start to thicken, and he's tempted to say fuck it all and just join them.

Yohji laughs hard at that thought, and long enough that he nearly burns his fingers on his dwindling cigarette. Oh, man. Yeah, they can curse Takatori Reiji as much as they want, but what they've got going on here? Can't hurt a dead man and certainly won't keep Weiss alive.

Momoe-san's chair creaks dangerously as Yohji leans as far back as he can and lights one more cigarette. His free hands rests close enough to his cock that he could graze it with his thumb if he wanted, and it's a tempting thought. He doesn't, though. He's not in the mood to add to the guilt-fest going on downstairs. There's already enough of that to borrow between them.

 

**end**


End file.
